Shot in the Dark
by YaoiLord
Summary: Strange finds himself not liking Tony Stark. IronStrange.


**IW AU to not spoil you guys. IronStrange, and it's not even my ship. But our boi Tony needs some love too. Enjoy.**

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"Tea?"

"Scotch."

It's specific this time at least, Strange thinks. With a flick of his wrist, Stark's glass is filled with single-malt scotch.

Stark regards the drink idly, more out of curiosity than fascination. Not that Strange is expecting the last, of course.

"Neat. Can you do it on the rocks?"

Strange floats the ice bucket right in front of Stark, letting the moisture drip at his pants. "Here."

Stark is just _begging_ for it.

…

"So what is it that you do?" Stark gestured at Strage's attire. "Nice outfit by the way."

"Doctor Stephen Strange. Master of the Mystic Arts."

"I thought it's neurosurgery."

"I _was_ a neurosurgeon."

Stark makes a noise at the back of his throat. "That's a very far leap of interest."

Strange tries to ignore him.

"A man of science and not-science. Are you sure you're not The Master of Ironic Arts instead?

"And is your cape moving? I swear I saw it twitch.

"What's with the necklace? That's not from a card game character, is it?

"Are those little orange shields? Cute."

Strange _tries_ at least. He makes quick note of that point.

"Are you done?" he says, not really asking.

Stark crosses his arms like a supervisor who's up for evaluating Strange. "No? I'm just starting."

Strange finds himself not liking Tony Stark.

…

"Stop. I don't follow that."

Stark rolled his eyes—condescendingly _,_ Strange realizes—before explaining again, the motormouth that he is, the machine he needs to make within five hours, the materials he needs to have, and why the hell it has to be Strange and this boy, Peter, who have to fetch them for him.

Strange can only do so much as to listen attentively. He doesn't know how some of the parts look like, but at least Peter has a good head on his shoulders. He seems bright enough for the two of them to understand Tony-speak.

"Right." Stark points at Strange. "You watch Pete. He's good with his spidey senses, but just as reckless as an amateur." He turns to Peter as soon as the teen opens his mouth to protest that he's no longer amateur. "You stay close to your mom, and don't do anything too heroic if it's not needed."

Strange does not sputter indignantly, but he's offended nonetheless. "What did you just call me?"

"Strange is a mouthful," is the only explanation he gets. Peter is too busy nodding at Stark's instructions to care who was called what.

" _Doctor_ Strange," Strange corrects because he's not one to get tired of pointing out his earned title.

"Exactly my point." Stark shrugs, and the situation is actually comical if they're not standing on top of the ruins of what used to be the Avengers Tower.

"Stay close to mom. Gotcha," Peter repeats relentlessly like it's the word of God, or maybe that's what really Stark is to Peter on a normal day.

The _I'm not your mom_ sounds pretty pointless that Strange opts for ignoring the sentence altogether.

When Peter notes Strange's expression, he's sheepishly looking at anywhere but him, like he's apologetic that it took him long to realize that Stark called Strange Peter's mom, and he doesn't notice the difference that much.

It's like in sitcoms where the three of them are a dysfunctional family struggling to survive the apparent end of the world.

And Thanos and his Black Order are the audience. Perhaps.

"I'll take care of him," Strange assures Stark when he noticed the underlying concern behind the uncalled joke. Strange doesn't know Peter that long, but he seems close to Stark like a long lost son… or something.

"No. You take care of each other. We don't have two more body bags to go around anymore."

Strange is dissatisfied to leave it at that, though he follows Peter either way when the kid nudges him to leave.

"Hey, it's cool. I mean, Mr. Stark's pretty much like my Dad. He gets a nickname too."

Point missed, and yet Strange's lips quirked to a smile against his better judgement.

Contrary to what he initially thought, it's not yet the end of the world. No, not when there are still men standing.

Like him. Like Peter. Like Stark.

And maybe, hopefully maybe, they can still win this.

…

"He'll be fine," Strange says, and it sounds hollow even to his ears. "He's a strong kid. _You_ know that."

"Do I?" Stark shots back, hands cradling delicately Peter's head on his palms. "Jesus Christ, I don't know—nobody knows anymore."

Strange doesn't deny the truth of that statement. Looking around and finding themselves in a different planet and with more unconscious bodies of new allies found halfway, Strange feels even more disheartened at the probability of their survival.

It might have been the venue, but Strange thinks it's more of the kid, Peter, who only a while ago is fit as a fiddle until Thanos made quick work of them all.

Strange is left without the Time Stone, an unconscious Peter, and a rapidly paling Stark.

His eyes find Stark's side and sees him bleeding like a gutted deer. Either Stark is yet to come off the adrenaline, or he hardly cares.

"Stark, you're losing too much blood."

Stark touches his side and gets a bloody hand in return. He staggers in his kneeling position, shaking the dizziness from blood-loss away. "Been wondering why I feel sticky."

He miraculously obliges without a word at Strange's order of positioning Peter on the ground, while Strange kneels beside him, closer where can practically smell the coppery stench.

"Take off your shirt."

Stark raises an eyebrow. "I usually ask for dinner first. You know what? I can settle for coffee right now that I'll let you to pull even my pants off."

And Strange… Strange isn't expecting the sudden cheek, not with the kid lying not far and Stark was blaming himself not long ago.

Stark is right, nothing is certain anymore.

So Strange laughs, and it sounds like a choked sob at first until he can barely contain the mirth bubbling in his chest. He laughs at Stark's nerve to make light of the situation.

He laughs even if it's the last thing he does in his life.

…

Strange struggles to sew back the torn flesh without any surgical equipment, making do with magic alone and two years out of medical practice.

His hands shake as his fingers weave the veins and muscles. He notices, then, his own scarred skin and how the stitches run, and realizes that perhaps he shouldn't.

Once, he's proud to have them while learning the Mystic Arts, because practicing sorcery with trembling hands is akin to a huge middle finger at the part of him that was long defeated after the accident. Now it's a different case; his insecurity is showing, and he knows—he knows that it would have been a lot better if his hands are in perfect condition, uninjured.

At the back of his mind, he's impressed at how Stark handles the pain. Strange has never tried this kind of healing, even to himself, but he doesn't have to experience it to know it _hurts_ , hurts more than being impaled.

And yet Stark is there, hiding his wince, while his eyes never tear from Strange's moving fingers.

Strange feels more conscious, and he wonders since when he earned the trust of this man.

His hands stop shaking when Stark holds his wrists, steadying him when it should be Strange doing that to him.

The wound closes without Stark letting him go.

When the faint trace of the injury vanishes, Strange exhales in relief, his breaths coming easier after a few intakes.

Stark is still holding his wrists when the most inexplicable happens: Strange curls his own hands on Stark's and squeezes.

A beat is yet to pass when he receives the same gesture in return.

…

Strange still dislikes him, he thinks, but not because of their early encounters.

He dislikes Stark when he refused the medical attention. He dislikes Stark for insisting he's fine, and saying the worst had been taken care of.

He dislikes Stark for striding where Strange sits in peace after he makes sure Peter and their other allies are alright.

What Strange dislikes the most in Stark is the ghost of the cocky grin that blooms in his face, and how easy he comes up to Strange and asks:

"Does that offer of coffee still stand? I'm craving for some."

Strange doesn't remember offering that, but he relents anyway, and he says that perhaps he's free at next week's Thursday afternoon.

Stark makes a show of taking that down, something Strange finds ironic that Stark actually has a pen and paper on him in spite of all that technology this man is known for.

The Ironic Man and The Master of Ironic Arts.

Strange begins to consider suggesting to Stark the use of their new monikers. Next time, on their coffee date, maybe.

And maybe, just maybe, this is more than just a shot in the dark.

 _ **end**_

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 **Thanks for the read. xoxo**


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